


Just A Little Christmas Miracle

by bluevalentine69



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Christmas Crack, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Christmas Special, Humor, Inappropriate Mentions Of The North Pole, M/M, One Shot, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:55:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28215810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluevalentine69/pseuds/bluevalentine69
Summary: Ingredients: coffee shops, cinnamon cookies, winking gingerbread men, mistletoe-delivering robins, inappropriate festive puns, mind-blowing transatlantic orgasms, lashings of fluff, a good dose of magic, generous sprinklings of nonsensical humour, and a partridge in a pear tree ...A little seasonally-inspired gift for all my fellow Merthur lovers <3Happy Holidays! xoxo
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur loved Oxford. He loved that it was the city where he’d been born and raised, the place where he’d been educated (first at the prestigious Dragon School, then at Radley College, and then finally at Oxford University itself, at Christ Church College), and that it was home to the cobbled streets he knew so well he could walk them blindfolded. He loved its quaint pubs, boasting illustrious histories of patronage - Tolkein and C. S. Lewis and Oscar Wilde - and its quirky shops filled with all manner of treasures and curiosities. He particularly loved Oxford at Christmas time, when its narrow timbered alleyways glittered with fairy lights, when its college churches and quads rang with the music of choirs and carol singers, when its harried black-robed students bustled about between libraries and festive balls, when its ancient Covered Market smelt like cinnamon cookies, and when its shops began to sparkle with seasonal baubles and trinkets - when magic itself seemed woven into its very fabric. And Arthur _especially_ loved The Alchemist’s Alcove at Christmas; a boutique bookshop nestled on Turl Street - perfectly suited to Diagon Alley or Hogsmeade - and stocked with a hotchpotch of leather-bound journals, antique books with gold-embossed pages, fine feather quills, ornate Venetian masks, Murano glass pens, old-fashioned rubber stamps and sealing wax, marble busts and wooden bookends and all manner of surprising artefacts. But best (and most secretly) of all: it served the most delicious coffee in Oxford.

Now, at twenty-three, and after a busy year in London, working in Mergers and Acquisitions for Goldman Sachs, Arthur had finally returned home for the holidays, and made a beeline to his favourite haunt for a spot of Christmas shopping. He smiled as the bell tinkled at his entry, shaking off the dusting of snow from his dark overcoat and admiring the familiar surroundings, adorned with displays of fir tree branches, holly berries, and sweet-smelling pine cones.

“Can I help?” a pretty assistant asked. Her name badge read _Freya_.

“I urgently need Christmas presents for everyone I know,” Arthur shrugged apologetically, hands in his pockets. “I’ve left it rather late, I’m afraid.”

“We specialise in miracles,” the girl smiled, fluttering her eyelashes, and Arthur politely went through his list of family and friends requiring thoughtful presents, simultaneously trying to make it clear that he wasn’t available for romance, unless Freya was secretly housing a pornographically large cock underneath her very short skirt. Several hundred pounds (and another girl’s broken dreams) later, laden with bags, Arthur pushed his way through the velvet curtains at the back of the store leading down to a grotto-like den serving coffee and cake; now kitted out with mistletoe and candles and snow-sprayed Christmas trees, and feeling every inch like Narnia.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he heard a male voice exclaim, before half a shelf’s worth of mugs smashed onto the floor behind the counter and a dark head of curly hair disappeared beneath it, cursing and muttering profusely.

“Er, is everything alright?” Arthur enquired courteously, placing his bags next to his favourite leather sofa, and looking at the daily specials, hastily scrawled onto a blackboard. When he was met with silence, he peered over the countertop to see the dark hair trying to remain out of sight. “Hello?” he asked again. A red-faced young man popped up and Arthur thought _fawn_ , given the large ears peeking out of the curls, and then _leprechaun_ , given the bright blue eyes, and then _Lord help me_ , as he registered dimpled cheeks and bow-shaped lips.

“Sorry, you gave me an erection,” the man said. “What can I get you?” Arthur stared at him as his eyes widened comically. “Oh,” he said, colouring an even deeper shade of poinsettia and accidentally putting his hand in a bowl of whipped cream, before that too, fell to the floor with a smash. He looked down in shock. “I didn’t mean to say that.” His eyes darted back to Arthur’s face nervously. “Would you like to file a complaint? We have a strong policy against sexual harassment.”

“Surely that’s to protect the staff?” Arthur asked blankly, utterly astonished.

“Oh, well, yes,” the man admitted, flustered, “but I think offering customers blowjobs instead of biscuits is probably frowned upon too.” He scratched his neck, searching for - and finding a pen - and holding it out to Arthur. “Feedback forms are upstairs by the snow globes.” Arthur stared some more, given that his brain had unhelpfully forgotten how to form words.

“No, that’s okay,” he said eventually, feeling dazed and slightly aroused. The man’s face brightened considerably.

“Great!” he said, putting the pen down, and wiping his hand on his red woolly jumper. “So. What can I get you?”

“I suppose the foamy hot chocolate is out?” Arthur asked, eyes flicking to the blackboard. The man looked at the cream-splattered floor.

“It seems that way,” he agreed apologetically. “It’s not on today’s menu, but I make an excellent gingerbread latte?” He smiled hopefully. “I’ll even throw in a free cinnamon bun - I made them freshly this morning.”

“I thought Alice made all the baked goods here?” Arthur asked suspiciously, peering at the lumpy, icing-drowned buns.

“Usually she does,” the man nodded, surreptitiously using his foot to move all the smashed crockery into a corner. “She’s my aunt. I’m minding the shop for her and my Uncle Gaius. They’ve gone to Lapland for Christmas.” He looked up at Arthur cheerfully. “They don’t look as nice as hers, but they taste brilliant, I promise. I added an extra dash of magic. I’m Merlin by the way.” Arthur shook himself slightly, remembering his manners and holding out his hand.

“Arthur,” he introduced himself. “That sounds delicious, thank you.”

“I’ll bring them over,” Merlin smiled, nodding towards the sofa Arthur had reserved, and glancing behind him, clearly dismayed at the sudden flurry of customers.

As promised, both the latte and bun were delicious. But Arthur couldn’t help noticing, as he ate his festive afternoon treat and bobbed his foot along to the 1940s-style rag-time Christmas music, that Merlin kept glancing over at him, and every time he did, something behind the counter promptly smashed. Arthur eyed up the diminishing number of mugs and decided that it was probably time for him to leave, if anyone else was going to be able to drink coffee in anything other than their cupped palms today. He carried his tray over to the counter and winced as Merlin tripped over the dustbin and knocked a tray of cookies to the floor, spraying the nearest customers with a warm shower of crumbs. He blinked at them in shock, before flushing red again, to the tips of his very large ears, as he mumbled his profuse apologies and turned his flaming cheeks to Arthur.

“I’ve got to get to a few more shops before they close,” Arthur said apologetically, handing his mug and plate across to Merlin. Something like regret flashed across Merlin’s features as he nodded his thanks.

“Well, have a nice Christmas,” he said a little forlornly, fiddling with his apron. An old lady with chocolate chips in her hair eyed the pair of them warily, discreetly moving her seat further away from the counter.

“How do you feel about pasta?” Arthur asked suddenly, in what he could only attribute to an inexplicable fit of whimsy.

“Pasta?” Merlin repeated, confused.

“Eating it,” Arthur clarified. “Together, ideally.” A glass vase behind Merlin’s head exploded and Arthur ducked automatically, gazing at his arms as its silvery powdered remnants sprinkled from above him like fairy dust. Merlin leaned over the counter to look down at him, hair sparkling like diamonds.

“Do you mean on a date?” he asked with cautious curiousity. Arthur felt something like hysteria bubble up inside him at the mere _notion_ of how much damage might be caused to Oxford in the process, but he nodded optimistically and stood up, alarmed to find the buns positively vibrating with excitement.

“I know a lovely Italian restaurant,” Arthur continued, bracing himself for further misfortune as he shook the glass-dust off himself. “Luigi’s. I can book a table?” Merlin beamed at him with an infectious sort of joy.

“I absolutely love pasta,” he declared enthusiastically, ignoring the blood oozing from the chunk of glass vase embedded in his hand. “I finish at six.” Arthur passed across his handkerchief for the wound.

“I’ll pick you up,” he confirmed, turning to leave. “I’ll bring a first aid kit.”

*

Approximately three hours later, Arthur and Merlin sit across from each other in the corner of Luigi’s, which Arthur is rather dismayed to find decorated as though its owner had been on hallucinogenics at the time, with tinsel streamers billowing down from the ceiling like tentacles of seaweed in an underwater Christmas bonanza. There’s an actual sleigh above their heads, providing them with an odd modicum of privacy, and there’s a lantern on the table with what looks like the North Pole inside it, twinkling merrily and playing a musical loop of Deck the Halls and The Twelve Days of Christmas. Merlin looks positively enchanted.

“So,” Arthur smiles, once the waiter has taken their order and delivered a bottle of Chianti to the table, “what do you do when you’re not destroying your uncle’s shop and sexually harassing strangers?” Merlin blushes and puts his elbow in the butter dish, biting his lip with a grateful smile as Arthur hands him a napkin.

“I’m a student,” Merlin informs him bashfully, gingerly dabbing at the sleeves of his freshly adorned ‘date’ jumper (it has a Christmas tree on the front of it, with flashing lights).

“Which college?” Arthur enquires genially, unable to stop smiling, a little too charmed by the walking disaster sitting opposite him.

“Oh not here,” he says distractedly. “I’m a Fine Arts scholar at Central Saint Martins.”

“Very impressive,” Arthur remarks, surprised. “Do you want to be an artist?” Merlin shakes his head, glancing up at Arthur from beneath dark eyelashes with unfettered yearning.

“I want to be an illustrator, really. Children’s books. I already have a few prints on sale in the shop.” Arthur frowns as he tries to remember if he saw any books by a Merlin … he’s not sure he knows his surname.

“What’s your surname?” he asks.

“Klaus,” Merlin says. “Apt for this time of year, I know. My father’s family was Danish, although I was raised in Oxford, by my mother.”

“What happened to your dad?” Arthur asks, intrigued, before realising that it’s perhaps a little too personal a question for a first date.

“He buggered off after he’d ejaculated, apparently.” Merlin says easily, snapping a breadstick in half and chewing a corner so lewdly, as he stares at Arthur’s mouth, that Arthur nearly asks for the cheque. He misinterprets Arthur’s silence as shock. “Mum had a one night stand at uni,” he explains. “We’re a very sexual family.”

“Do you fancy a takeaway instead?” Arthur asks, reaching for his coat, and Merlin nods and stands up immediately, hitting his head on the hoof of an overhead reindeer, pushing his chair backwards as he jumps, and knocking over a waitress. He bends down in dismay to help the meatball-covered girl gaping at him, and Arthur surreptitiously drinks half their bottle of wine as a stabiliser. He suspects that dating Merlin bears equivalent risk to taking up an extreme sport.

Approximately three hours and forty-five minutes later, Arthur groans as he pushes inside Merlin and feels like he’s come home, closing his eyes and pressing hot kisses to the base of Merlin’s throat, urgently gripping the skinny thighs wrapped around his waist and struggling not to come as Merlin arches in his arms, tipping his head back and banging it against the front door, mouth parted in wordless, indescribable ecstasy.

“Arthur,” he breathes reverently, nimble fingers winding into his hair and eyes locking with Arthur’s as he withdraws and pushes in again, more slowly, savouring the profound intensity of their connection until confused thoughts gatecrash his bliss.

“What happened to our clothes?” Arthur pants, wondering how on earth he’s already grinding into Merlin’s prostate when he can barely recall the walk back to Merlin’s flat, let alone stripping and preparing him for such intensely intimate lovemaking in his hallway.

“No idea,” Merlin whispers, finding Arthur’s lips and claiming his mouth again, kissing him so urgently and possessively Arthur feels positively light-headed. It’s when he’s suddenly horizontal, body pressing Merlin’s into a soft bed, that he begins to feel a little seasick, as though he’s jumping through time and space with no ability to account for his movements. But Merlin suddenly shouts and shudders against him, wet warmth spreading between them as Arthur tips over into his own moment of agonising pleasure, and the lurching sense of discombobulation is wiped entirely from his mind. Merlin kisses him gently, sweetly, winding their bodies together as they cool down, nuzzling against Arthur happily, as though they’re not total strangers. It’s then that he notices they’re levitating. He turns slowly towards Merlin, brow furrowed, and blinks when Merlin simply shrugs in an _oops! what can you do?_ sort of way, eyes crinkling warmly and making Arthur’s stomach do backflips.

“Mister Klaus,” a squeaky voice suddenly interrupts from the floor area, and Arthur looks down to see a small elf with pointy ears looking up at the bed with long-suffering patience. “Your father wants to see you.”

“I thought you didn’t know your father?” Arthur says accusingly, pulling away from Merlin, momentarily surprised that his date’s lie has upset him more than the recent discovery that he’s gone completely insane.

“I said he’d buggered off after impregnating my mother, not that I hadn’t subsequently met him,” Merlin says soothingly, stroking his foot reassuringly against Arthur’s calf, and sliding a hand down to rub Arthur’s cock placatingly. “He’s probably just a little annoyed about my magic so _blatantly_ presenting itself all day. I’m supposed to be ‘discreet’.” Merlin rolls his eyes, gazing at Arthur with such trusting adoration that Arthur finds it difficult to feel cross at all.

“He did say it was urgent, young master,” the elf interrupts again, and Merlin swats him ineffectually as his tongue begins to do delicious things to Arthur’s ear.

“Not now Frick,” Merlin says good-naturedly, gasping as Arthur rolls on top of him and hitches his legs up to thrust back inside, completely confused, and remarkably at ease about that fact.

After six or seven mind-blowing orgasms - Arthur loses count after a shower of shooting stars singes one of his eyebrows - Merlin sits across from him on a candy-cane striped sofa, a thick fur throw pulled over them both, carefully blowing on his marshmallow-studded hot chocolate as Arthur gazes numbly at the panoramic snowy views from Merlin’s windows. He turns around and sees the familiar circular outline of the Bodleian Library, glowing gold in Oxford’s streetlights, from the window on the other side of the room.

“So we’re … where, exactly?” Arthur asks slowly.

“In Oxford,” Merlin reassures him, putting a hand on his ankle. Arthur looks at Merlin askance. “And also in the North Pole,” Merlin elaborates. “It opens on both sides.”

“Right,” Arthur nods. “I see.”

“My father is Saint Nicholas,” Merlin explains, sliding his socked toes beneath Arthur’s legs for warmth and connection.

“Do saints usually have one night stands with mortal humans?” Arthur asks, somewhat incredulously.

“Not usually,” Merlin admits.

“Do _you_?” Arthur accuses him, feeling jealous.

“I’m not a saint,” Merlin hurries to explain. “And I’m a mortal human too, until my father decides to pass down the mantle.”

“ _Do you have a lot of one night stands in your magical shag pad_?” Arthur asks, feeling his temples throbbing.

“Oh!” Merlin exclaims, surprised. “No.” He shakes his head very firmly, wriggling his toes against Arthur’s thigh. “I’ve never had sex before.”

“You’ve never had sex before,” Arthur repeats in a strangled voice.

“Um, it’s just, it’s a Klaus family heritage thing,” Merlin explains hesitantly, colouring slightly. “Once we have sex, that’s kind of it. You know. Forever.”

“Forever?” Arthur clarifies weakly.

“Souls bonded for eternity, married by the laws of nature and so forth. So we have to be careful.” Arthur can feel his eyes bulging.

“Are you saying that we’re … married?” he squeaks, heart stuttering in a panicked bid for freedom against his ribcage.

“Only a little bit,” Merlin protests defensively, frowning in concern as he registers Arthur’s horror. “Don’t worry, we can live out an entirely normal life in this dimension before we take up our roles as immortal Guardians of Christmas and Granters of Children’s Wishes. I’m just like you, except for my slightly unusual parentage.” Arthur feels a pressing urge to leave, immediately, and stands up abruptly, hastily searching for his clothes and backing away from Merlin, hand reaching for the front door handle.

“I’m clearly having a stress-induced episode,” he says firmly, holding out a hand to prevent Merlin from following him. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a very pleasurable evening, thank you.” He breathes in relief as soon as he gets to the street, drunk teenagers staggering along the pavement together, singing Jingle Bells loudly and tunelessly. Depressing normality is wonderfully restorative.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the coming week, Arthur feels an awful, aching sense of loss, and a strong pull back to The Alchemist’s Alcove. He ignores these urges, convinced that sleep deprivation and too much sugar and alcohol had somehow played tricks with his mind, and embarrassed to have behaved so badly in front of someone as lovely as Merlin. He tries to ignore the inexplicable little gestures of romance that keep manifesting themselves around him: a gingerbread man winking at him in Starbucks; a robin delivering him a small bouquet of mistletoe, a pair of cooing turtle doves on his windowsill one morning, warbling out what sounded like a very sad version of Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart; intertwined love hearts with M&A carved into the frost on his front lawn; and - a lot less subtly, and harder to dismiss as coincidence - a gold ring (made of tiny leaves, in the shape of a wreath) left beneath his pillow. That, he decides, really must be the final straw, and so he bravely returns to Turl Street, determined to put a stop to this nonsense.

The shop is typically busy when Arthur arrives, the bell above the door tinkling in greeting, and he has to wind his way slowly between the cluttered shelves and tables, offended by the way in which the masks disdainfully turn up their noses at him, and the elves in the snow globes rudely stick out their tongues and wag reprimanding fingers in his direction.

“Oh for goodness sake,” Arthur mutters under his breath. “It’s not like he proposed and gave me time to consider the matter. I’ve been tricked into lifelong commitment!” A particularly severe looking bronze dragon raises its eyebrow at him.

“Two halves of the same whole will always be reunited,” it drawls haughtily, and Arthur gapes at it, wondering why none of the other customers seem to have noticed that the store’s usually inanimate objects are now seemingly both conscious and _extremely_ judgemental.

It’s then that he notices a stack of eye-catching ink-sketches, with a neat ‘M.K’ marked in each corner. Intrigued, he thumbs through Merlin’s Christmas prints, snorting at his odd, inappropriate sense of humour.

POOR SANTA: HE ONLY COMES ONCE A YEAR

EVERY MAN HOPES FOR A WHITE CHRISTMAS

SANTA KNOWS WHERE ALL THE NAUGHTY BOYS LIVE

REBEL WITHOUT A CLAUS

FESTIVE FEAR = CLAUS-TROPHOBIA

VIRGINS: STAY AWAY FROM THE NORTH POLE

LATEST STD (SEASONALLY TRANSMITTED DISEASE): TINSELITUS

POOR LIBIDOS IN LAPLAND = LOW **ELF** -ESTEEM

RIDE ME LIKE RUDOLPH AND MAKE ME GLOW

HELLO HANDSOME, COME AND SIT ON MY “KNEE”

“Randy bugger,” Arthur smiles fondly, restacking the artwork and grinning as a giggling group of schoolgirls select their favourites.

*

Merlin looks up as soon as Arthur enters the coffee shop, knocking over a shaker full of icing sugar and shrouding himself in mist. Arthur has a strange urge to lick him.

“Hello,” he smiles nervously, coughing in the cloud of powder surrounding him, eyes beautiful and imploring. “Today’s specials are cider-spiced-chai, eggnog custard tarts, and mulled mince pies.” Arthur glances at the sprig of mistletoe above his head, steadily snaking downwards, like a creepy, sentient vine.

“Stop that,” Arthur tells it firmly, grimacing as it whacks him in the face. Merlin swats it crossly, glaring as it makes a hasty retreat upwards. “Thank you,” he nods to Merlin.

“Anytime,” Merlin says quietly, looking around guiltily at his sneezing customers. Arthur opens his mouth to tell him to cut out the magical romantic antics accosting him in every waking hour, but this notion is replaced, unequivocally, by an overpowering need to protect the wonderful (and impressively flexible, which seems suddenly important) man standing in front of him.

“How do you feel about beef?” he asks instead, giving in to the seemingly inevitable fact that he is destined to fall hopelessly in love with chaos.

“Beef?” Merlin repeats shyly, hope creeping into his voice.

“Eating it,” Arthur clarifies. “With my father and sister. I suppose you should meet the in-laws.” The baubles adorning every branch and wreath within a two-metre radius start bouncing suggestively, and Merlin furiously berates his errant magic, giving himself a very stern talking-to. Arthur slides a blue velvet box across the counter, surprised to discover that he’d pocketed it in the first place. Merlin opens it with shaking fingers, eyes widening as he sees the simple silver Celtic wedding band inside it. “My mother left it to me,” Arthur explains. “I presume she intended it for my wife.”

“Wife?” Merlin whispers weakly. Arthur smirks.

“Wife,” he agrees smugly, stepping behind the counter and pulling Merlin to him by the apron strings. “I think I’m in love with you,” he admits matter-of-factly, “Marriage could probably work.” Merlin gapes at him as he slides the ring onto his ring finger. “The kitchen appears to be on fire,” Arthur informs him calmly, kissing his cheek as everyone around them starts shouting, overhead smoke alarms wailing and water sprinklers bursting into action, showering the room with freezing rain. A slow smile begins to creep across Merlin’s face.

“I absolutely _love_ beef,” he declares enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss that somehow ends up with Arthur sitting naked in a fur-lined sleigh, Merlin straddling him - equally naked - and bouncing up and down on his cock until he splatters himself across Arthur’s chest. It’s very Jackson Pollock. Arthur’s whole body seems to melt into boneless relaxation as he climaxes too, pumping himself deep inside Merlin.

“Merlin Astrid Gabriel Ebenezer Klaus!” a terrifying voice booms. Merlin stops sucking Arthur’s nipples, looking up at him in horror. “For pity’s sake, get your scrawny arse out of my sleigh before I disinherit you! Have some self-control boy!”

“Sorry dad,” Merlin whispers to the room, grinning at Arthur sheepishly, and apologetically kissing the purple bruises marring his throat. “He wants to meet you,” Merlin says, sighing as their clothes reappear in a jumbled heap beside them. “Mum too, and my Uncle Gaius and Aunt Alice. Not to mention the elves and the reindeer and … Arthur?”

“Your initials spell ‘MAGEK’,” Arthur muses quizzically.

“My parents have an odd sense of humour,” Merlin rationalises.

“Your middle name is Ebenezer!” Arthur exclaims gleefully.

“Oh shut up,” Merlin laughs, pushing Arthur’s shoulder. “Pot, kettle, Mister Arthur Florizel Jago Coriolanus _Valentine_ Pendragon.”

“My father likes Shakespeare,” Arthur says flatly.

“Good thing I love you too,” Merlin grins brightly, writhing heartily in Arthur’s embrace. “Our poor children won’t stand a chance!” Arthur grabs his wrists and holds him still for a moment.

“I’m sorry, our what now?”

*

AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER


End file.
